


When Staring Isn't Rude

by transtwinyards



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, POV First Person, Profanity, Slow Burn, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4070542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transtwinyards/pseuds/transtwinyards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I was here for hockey. I was to keep my head down, stay in the shadows, play hockey, and graduate. Get a good job, pay out my loans. That was what Chiron, my foster father, had told me to do. I wanted to uphold that. Chiron was a good dad to me; I wanted to make him happy for the both of us. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>Well, how the fuck was I supposed to keep my head down when I find out that my one of my teammates—no, my team’s ace and constant MVP was the son of Peleus?</em></p><p> </p><p>Where Patroclus meets Achilles in college hockey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Staring Isn't Rude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> a very advanced bday gift to [cha](http://2orpe.tumblr.com) who requested Uni!AU for my Patrochilles cravings.
> 
> Well, it came out as more of an [omgcp](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com)!AU than anything, haha. so yeah.
> 
> This is the first time I've written in first-person so, please, be gentle with the criticism. I'm so nervous about shit like this like you wouldn't even know.

I was here for hockey. I was to keep my head down, stay in the shadows, play hockey, and graduate. Get a good job, pay out my loans. That was what Chiron, my foster father, had told me to do. I wanted to uphold that. Chiron was a good dad to me; I wanted to make him happy for the both of us.

Well, how the fuck was I supposed to keep my head down when I find out that my one of my teammates—no, my team’s _ace_ and constant MVP was the son of Peleus? Like, _the_ Legendary Pellie.

I regarded my team captain from the corner of my eye; he was sitting there, laughing with the rest of the team. Such fake, _fake_ laughter.

He looked nothing like Peleus. His hair was a golden kind of blond, his skin was a paler tone of tan, and his eyes were stunningly green. Nothing like his mother either, I discovered from required researching later on.

I picked through my breakfast before going back to observing.

Everyone called him Killie. A stupid hockey nicknaming tradition that stupid hockey players conformed to.

Here, everyone called me _Patty_. It was stupid. Nicknames were stupid. It was an excuse to not say my full name, to not to have to stutter through it.

As if sensing the heat of my gaze, he looked at me. Stunningly green with flecks of gold that went well with his barely tan skin and golden hair. I looked away, back to my breakfast.

I was here for hockey.

* * *

 

The hockey scholarship was required. Well, at least _I_ required it. I owed Chiron more than he thought I should. I hated being in debt.

Every morning, when the boys in the team had invited me, I went to the hall with my books. I went _everywhere_ with my books. I needed to keep average or above scores. Or at least keep it up until graduation. I couldn’t afford to slip lower, and I knew my boundaries.

I had to keep myself up in advance.

“Hey Patty, what’s the quiz this time?” Someone asked, though to me, it sounded like a chirp. I looked up from my book.

The book I was reading at the moment was fiction. Chiron had let me borrow it as a farewell gift, wanted me to do something other than push myself at school.

It was easy to mistake for a research book, really. Hard bound cover, heavier than a bowl full of soup, and was so worn out that it looked like it could be older than me.

I didn’t say _all_ my books were textbooks now, did I?

It was Odysseus who had asked the question ( _chirped)_. Everyone called him Dyssey, which was ridiculous. These nicknames were stupid. So _stupid_.

“Didn’t you _know_ , Dyssey? Pat’s going to take Pre-Med. Shit’s _brutal._ Of course he’s studying!” Diomedes answered, though his mouth full of breakfast cereal. I nodded at his answer, looking back down to my book.

I leaned sideways on my chair to get more comfortable, almost jumping off as someone from behind me flipped one side of the book to see under it. Golden curls popped into my personal space.

 _Achilles_.

I hastily grabbed for the book, carefully keeping my clammy fingers on the pages. I shoved it down under the table, glaring at Achilles.

“It says Sherlock Holmes in the back,” he told the others with a stupid smug smile. Odysseus chortled, more at me than the prospect of my lying to them. I stiffened at the sound, scowling.

Well, I didn’t really _lie_ ; I just confirmed what Diomedes had said. I _was_ taking Pre-Med and it _was_ brutal. Achilles straightened himself out of my space, leaning onto the back of my chair.

“Here I thought you’d be studying, kid. It’s nice to take a break every once in a while,” Odysseus reminded fondly. It had an underlying tone to it, one I definitely did not trust.

But I nodded, grabbing one of the clean tissues on the table for a bookmark and stashing the book inside my bag.

Achilles was still very much pressing up against the chair to from behind. I pushed at Ajax’s chair beside me, the sound of wood screeching momentarily alerting the larger person. Ajax apologized and scooted away.

I stood and walked off.

On the way out of the hall, I glanced back.

I could see him regarding me, smug smile clean off his face as our eyes met. I fled the hall.

* * *

 

Practice was torture.

I didn’t have Ajax’s physique. I wasn’t big, buff, and tall. I was medium, lanky, and a bit wide by the shoulders. But somehow, the coaches always found ways to excuse themselves when they set me up for a check.

Look, I wasn’t afraid. I’ve said time and time again that I was here for hockey. Hockey was a contact-sport, much like football.

I wasn’t afraid of getting checked. I was more afraid of checking.

It all started a little ways, back when I was only starting high school. This was before Chiron; this was from a father I never knew to remember, a father that I didn’t love and didn’t love me back.

I was new to hockey. I knew how to skate and I knew how the game worked. Living in New York, that shit gets picked up easily when the NHL was on so often on TV.

Get the puck to a teammate that could aim and help. That was how the game went for me. High school meant no-checking.

So guess who checked? Me. Guess what happened? I injured him; he got concussed and got sent to the hospital. It was signed off as an accident, but after that…

People started treating me different. People started being wary of the quiet, lanky kid who put that other kid (Clyde? Was that his name?) in the hospital.

I was so used to getting ignored; then people couldn’t stop ignoring me. It was a hard transition.

After that, it was a blur. My father did something unforgivable, something illegal probably. That or the police finally found out what he’d been doing to me and my mother. I was given away to foster care, then Chiron adopted me and let me finish high school.

It was a sweet exchange deal, but the therapists never got me to ‘fess up on my behavior. I was abused, they said. I should say something, let it out, they said.

I didn’t know them, I didn’t trust them. I never told them. I let Chiron know on my graduation day. He thanked me for telling him, and then comforted me through it.

But the trauma carried on.

Everywhere I went, everyone probably knew. If they didn’t know, they were bound to. Then they’d start hating me and avoiding me, casting familiar wary glances, and jumping when I entered a room. It was in my head, those constant thoughts. And I knew it was just me being paranoid, but I really couldn’t help it.

Could I?

Hockey was therapeutic to me now. Skates on the ice, stick on my hand, visor hanging over my face, the ice sending cool reassurances to my wobbly knees. No one recognized me in my pads; no one gave me special attention. It was all distributed.

Hockey was a _team_ sport.

It’s Achilles versus Agamemnon today, one point game. Practice was long overdue and classes were going to start soon, but the coaches reassured that we could have a two-minute game. I was on Achilles’ team. Ajax was on the other.

And once again, I’m gonna be the one pulling the checks because the coaches were willing me to.

I rolled my eyes. Not if I could help it.

Puck hit the ice before I even noticed it. Achilles skated up to it, an agile blur in the rink. I observed by the side, skating restlessly. Agamemnon and Menelaus made to corner him but failed.

A pass to Automedon. I skated up, stick on the ice, ready to assist.

Automedon passed to me, and I blinked, panicking, looked around to see Ajax skating up to me.

I looked around faster. Achilles was free. Agamemnon and Menelaus were trying to block him.

I saw the opening, between their legs. I passed it to him, skating away to avoid Ajax’s approach. He grazed my shoulder and hit the boards with a loud _oof_!

The puck hit Achilles’ stick, smooth through the ice, under Menelaus’ feet. The stick _snapped_ loudly, as Achilles hit the ice and slingshot the puck into the net

Left side of the net, Odysseus raises his hands up too late. Agamemnon glared at him, he shrugged.

“Bro! We just beat the record!” Automedon laughed. “That was barely even a minute!”

Agamemnon huffed, “That’s just cheating.” He then gave _me_ a glare. I looked at him for a long moment, almost challenging him to tell me I was cheating, and then he looked away.

“Aw, don’t be such a sore loser, Aggy,” Odysseus cooed, taking off his helmet.

I tuned their chirping out, my eyes skirting around the rink to find Achilles. His stick was by his side, part of it visibly dangling. He’d broken it.

I wasn’t surprised to see this; he’s been breaking a lot of sticks. This was his fifth one this year.

He turned to look at me, like he knew I was looking at him. I didn’t break eye-contact. This has been going on for weeks and I was getting tired of looking away.

“Alright, match over! Get into the showers,” one of the coaches shouted.

Begrudgingly, I broke eye-contact to skate up to the locker rooms, wanting nothing but to take off my pads and to slip into something more open.

* * *

 

“Greece and their Influence to Modern Science and Health” was one of my scheduled three-hour lectures that were for every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

It wasn’t an unusual class, I’ve read up in advanced, and it was actually _really_ interesting. The professor emailed her students in advance about the topics for the lecture and to set up questions, to keep the three hours appointed to just discussion and debate.

I was hooked. The research material was interesting, _everything_ about it was interesting. Automedon called me a nerd for gushing about it so much.

But… Well, we can’t have everything good in this world, now can we? Well, at least _I_ couldn’t have everything good in the world.

Of _course_ there were cons to this.

Like the fact that no one was as interested in the subject as I was.

Or that my phone blew up every time I entered a lecture hall, because there were many bored college hockey players in my contacts that didn’t want to listen to their own lectures and decided to bombard the team’s group chat.

Or, the fact that I had the class with _Achilles_.

I didn’t openly hate him or anything. Now that I think about it, it might have just been jealousy.

The guy was rich, his dad was famous, his mom regularly coddled him (a fact that I’d heard from Phoinix, one of the team coaches who apparently went to college with Pellie). Also, he was great at hockey. Stellar, phenomenal, fantastic, whatever. You name it.

Fact of the matter is, he was lucky to be born privileged.

But what struck me most of all was, it wasn’t any of those reasons. It was his general fakeness.

People surrounding him were a constant when we were together with the team somewhere. The dining hall, the north quad, out on a game somewhere, during a party. He was popular, his dad was popular, and he knew popular people.

He was pleasing to the eye too.

But every smile was fake in front of everybody else. Every laugh (be it flirtatious or just a laugh in general), every joking grin (or smirk), and every action.

I mean, there _was_ some genuine concern, for fans who tell him concerning things. Sometimes even amusement, for when Agamemnon started up a petty fight or when Diomedes chirped Odysseus about Penelope.

But that was where it all stopped. Everything was fake. Sympathy or empathy; anger or nobility.

I’ve never once heard him genuinely laugh or smile. I was wary of him. Wary of his fakeness.

Now I had a class with him.

Another con was that he was as bored as the others in the team.

Another was that he had my phone number.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I clenched my jaw tighter, staring straight ahead, keeping my attention at the professor. He was across the room, occasionally glancing at me. I didn’t look.

My phone vibrated again and I sighed. He was pig-headed.

I slipped my phone out of my pocket, vaguely aware of the grin on his face as he saw me do this.

_

**ACHILLES MCFAKESTER**

HEY PAT, ISN’T THIS GREAT THAT THE TEACHER IS BLABBING ON ABOUT STUFF WE ALREADY READ??  
ANSWER UR GODDAMN PHONE PLS  
hey so when are we going to start seeing if there are any test results of zeus having stds?

_

Involuntarily, I snickered, covering it up with a cough. The professor didn’t stop to look. I heard another cough echo through the hall. This was normal.

I was good at pretending that I was sick, I was _used_ to it. I picked up my water bottle from my bag and drank.

Another vibrate. With a deep breath, I picked up my phone to look over the new message.

_

**ACHILLES MCFAKESTER**

seriously though, hephaestus came out  /s o/ fucked up, i’m convinced zeus has stds

_dude stfu. if i get caught for texting in class, i’m gonna punch you_

;) <3

_8=D  
^that’s a pic of u. true story_

_i’m srs though. fucking quit it._

:( </3

* * *

 

 

He didn’t quit texting me. I didn’t quit texting back either. In fact, we started hanging out.

Texting Achilles during that class became a natural thing for me. In due time, it _did_ get boring. The class I mean, not the texting. (Lord, _never_ the texting.)

The professor got bored too, and soon enough, she ended up breaking it off an hour earlier than was scheduled. It was a relief for everyone.

She still issued essays and projects though, which meant that I had to actually listen sometimes. And that meant that Achilles was going to bitch about how I didn’t catch any of the good jokes at the right time.

His challenge for every time that I “missed all the comedy gold during boring hour” was: I had to read over the texts out loud during lunch, and guess which part of the professor’s lecture he was joking about.

Achilles has weird priorities.

When I won, he’d buy us coffee and we’d help each other on our homework. When he won, I had to come by his dorm that night, feed him, and help him with his other homework. Usually he helped me with mine too.

It was a win/win game so I agreed to his conditions.

 

 

During study sessions, I noticed something:

Achilles was prone to moving.

He didn’t like sitting still for long hours. Every ten minutes into our very brief study sessions in the library, he’d abandon what he started doing ten minutes before and do something else.

He had a pattern, and I watched as he went through it. The first ten was research, next was notes, then it was advance reading, then he’d start sketching hockey plays into his notes, and so on and so forth.

Right now, he was jotting down on a notebook, but it wasn’t notes _or_ hockey plays. Subtly, I lean forward, pretending to grab for my very chewed-out click pen from across the table.

It was sheet music.

“What are you thinking?” He asked all of a sudden. It was a weird question. Achilles asked a lot of weird questions and they usually popped up around me.

I blinked, “I wasn’t thinking anything.” A continuous clicking sound thrummed in my ear and then I was calm.

Achilles stared; I was too far across, too deep in my chair. The lighting was bad and the window behind him did nothing to help. I couldn’t see the gold flecks in his eyes.

“There,” his voice broke through the silence. My pen-clicking had stopped. When had it stopped?  “You make that same face every time you’re thinking.”

Unconsciously, I reached up to touch my face, pushed my reading glasses back up my nose.

“How does it look?” I asked.

“Not bad,” he replied with a grin. Then he restarted his ten-minute clock, now typing away at his laptop, doing some sort of essay from some other subject.

* * *

 

I passed to Automedon, then him to Achilles.

I watched as he zoomed past the opponent team, two—no, three went up for the defense. I skated up, ready for the assist once more.

The last game of our first year’s season. Thirty seconds ‘til the end, and the scores were catching up. One more score in and the game is over for either team. Odysseus was holding up fine between the poles of our goal. Ajax was carefully set up near him with Agamemnon, looming down whoever wanted to get a shot in.

They were cornering Achilles, I realized. With a look, he passed to me. I caught it, effortlessly. Most of our passes to each other were effortless. I could feel my shoulders ache as I shuffled the puck, waiting for the opponents to come at me.

Two of them skated away from Achilles, wanting to get a check in. I grimaced, shouldering past one who tried to take away the puck.

Twenty five seconds…

From the corner of my eye, I saw Achilles skate around and behind my position, a clear set up. I widened my stance, pushing the puck backwards and through.

He caught it, I think. No, I _knew_ that he’d caught it. I watched as he zoomed past my position and took the clear shot while all the defenses were still on me.

Twenty seconds.

Left side bar, into the net. The crowd _roared_. I skated up to him as he reached center ice. The team’s second and third lines barreled through from behind me, practically dog-piling on Achilles. I stood back, smiling, observing.

Once the celebration was over, he pushed away from the dog-pile, with an uncomfortably fake smile on his face. His uniform was soaked from where he’d been pushed down onto the ice. The teams dispersed.

Odysseus went up to the opponent team’s players, possibly telling them that it was a good game. I winced as I saw one of them scowl at Odysseus’ offered hand.

Apparently, Agamemnon managed a few too-close-to-home chirps in, before _and_ during the game.

 

 

The locker room was buzzing pleasantly with the post-game high as we started showering and changing into more comfortable clothes.

 Achilles looked genuinely content but the fake smile was still there. He looked up to me from the bench, looked up to my pursed lips, and listed his head to the side. An obvious question.

I sat down the bench, picking up my phone. He took the hint.

_

**Achilles**

_your smiles seem fake around the team  
 just wanted to let you know that i’ve been noticing for a while now_

_

He didn’t reply. I didn’t expect him to. I put grabbed for my extra clothes and changed into them.

When I turned, he was staring at me. I looked away, always looking away. I grabbed my things and headed out.

I told myself I wanted peace and quiet before the teams started being loud on the bus. I didn’t think I could believe myself.

* * *

 

Over the summer, we kept in touch. I lived in urban Massachusetts and he lived in California. Two opposite sides of the country. Technology had its ways. We Skyped often enough.

I met _the_ Peleus over Skype. He was nice, a doting father, and told stories of famous hockey players like it was normal. It made me a bit uncomfortable how easy it was for him.

In return, Achilles met Chiron, who gave us financing advice and, at times, _studying_ advice. It was actually helpful. The thing I liked about Chiron was that he was still in contact with the inexperienced, didn’t seem condescending.

Maybe it was because he was a teacher.

Achilles agreed with me in all points. He had thought the same.

Most of the time, Achilles and I played video games and texted each other random things. Odysseus and Agamemnon dominated the team’s group messaging so we couldn’t hold a decent conversation there for long.

 

 

Achilles was taking Ancient Greek and was double-majoring in Music. I was taking Pre-Med.

 _Just_ Pre-Med.

“Don’t you ‘just pre-med’ me, _Patroclus_ ,” Achilles scolded over Skype. The way he said my first name was unusual. He said all of his syllables clearly, made sure to stretch it all out.

“What of it then, _Achilles_?” It wasn’t unusual of me to say his first name. I wasn’t used to using hockey nicknames.

Achilles frowned, “You’re the one with the practical major. Whether you graduate or not, you’re _still_ going to land a job.”

Achilles often joked of his low chances on employment. I knew how serious it was for him though, no matter how much he joked about it.

“Yeah, after years of paying off student loans,” I retorted. He laughed.

“Besides,” I continued. Achilles stopped, giving me all of his attention. “Your mother’s a politician. By blood relation, she’s already your sponsor. And your _dad_. Need I say more?”

I often reminded him of his luck like this. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be reminded of his fame, his privilege. I did anyway. Not to get a rise out of him, but to remind him that he had the power to still land a job no matter how low his chances are on employment.

He never did like asking for help.

“Whatever,” he muttered to the side, probably clicking away from the screen.

I took a moment to observe him, knowing that he didn’t wasn’t seeing me anymore. Cali was three hours behind. The lighting behind him was natural. The camera on his laptop was crappy, so it didn’t catch every detail but I knew it was there.

“What’re you doing?” Achilles asked, clicking back in. I breathed in, grabbed one of my school books and flipped it to a random chapter.

“Not much,” I responded as nonchalantly as I could. “You?”

Silence responded. My eyes flitted back to the screen. For a full second, I thought he was reading something, but his eyes weren’t moving the usual left-to-right.

He was staring at me again.

I pretended not to notice, going back to my book.

“I was reading something but got bored,” he lied. “We should play a game.”

 I pointedly lifted my book, “I’m trying to study?”

“Yeah, so? It doesn’t have to take up your concentration to be fun.”

I huffed, but I liked it when he got like this. Insistent. Because I _knew_ that if I’d said no, he wasn’t going to ask again.

“What’re we playing then,” it wasn’t a question, coming from me. A challenge. Achilles liked challenges.

He grinned, “Guess what I’m thinking.”

“What, no hints?”

“You don’t need any hints, it’s pretty easy,” he insisted. And he was right, it wasn’t anything hard. Achilles was _painfully_ predictable at times.

“I’ll go first,” he said.

“Hmm, hockey?” I rolled my eyes.

“Aw, _boo_.”

I laughed at his predictability, a voice inside my head telling me that he was probably letting me win. I pushed the thought aside, Achilles wasn’t a graceful loser. “Alright, my turn. What am I thinking?”

I was thinking of my last assist on the ice, his phenomenal left-net shot.

“Hockey?” He guessed. If he were in my room, I’d have punched him at the arm.

“Be more specific, I’m gonna drill you hard on this.” I went back to reading.

“Hmm, are you… thinking about… figs?”

For a moment, I froze. Then I blinked. “ _What_?”

“Y’know, figs! The fruits? Dude, have you _never_ heard of those?”

“I know what figs are, you idiot,” I chuckled. It was so random. Purple fruits that were red inside. I’ve never tasted one.

“Yeah well, you’re thinking about them now, aren’tcha?”

My silence made him laugh—no, _cackle_. Perfect Achilles, losing control, practically snorting through his wheezy breaths.  All because he made a clever joke in this little game he made up.

“I hate you,” I muttered to him.

He posed up, his hands on his cheeks, eyes closed. An innocent gesture with an innocent smile. I rolled my eyes then went back to my book.

 _Achilles_.

 

“Hey, so semester’s starting over. I still don’t have a roommate.” He said, straightening in his seat. I heard it creak in the background. I looked at him. He’s told me this a thousand times over.

“I know,” was my answer, as it always was.

He visibly tensed, looking nervous all of a sudden.

“So, do you… wanna be roommates or something? You mentioned having a dorm but, I dunno, I could use a roommate…”

I closed my book and straightened up. “Are you _sure_ about this?”

His nervousness dropped. “Why wouldn’t I be?” came his predictably confused answer.

I rolled my eyes, pushing my glasses up, “In case you’re forgetting, you have people lining up for roommating. Automedon is crashing by some friend’s place, and then there are the people who practically fawn over you with their sob stories.”

“Don’t you want to be my roommate?” he asked instead. Frustrated, I groaned.

“Achilles, _yes_ , I want to be roommates, but you can’t just rush shit like this,” I explained.

“We have a week before semester, is that not enough to prepare the extra bed?” he asked again. I sighed, counting up and down to keep my cool. His simplicity was getting to me. I usually overcomplicate things.

“Alright, fine,” I gave in. Achilles was pig-headed. I threw my hands up in surrender. “We’re splitting fifty-fifty on all bills. Deal?”

He grinned, leaning back in his seat. I had a feeling he’d planned this. Planned for my frustration and overcomplicating. For some reason, I didn’t mind.

“Deal.”

* * *

 

“Do you have an extra pen?” asked Achilles from across the room.

Without looking up from my laptop, I grabbed one from my bed and tossed it at him. He mumbled a thanks and returned to the silence.

School was kicking back up, everyone was busy with finals and the coaches were busy making tactics. I was steadily having test anxiety.

I barely stood from my bed all day now. All my books were scattered through the bed with pens, pencils, rubber, highlighters, snacks, and Red Bull cans from the fridge.

Achilles was taking it easy, writing on his sheet music and sometimes strumming his guitar. He said it was his hobby. I didn’t mind the music. I minded the fact that he wasn’t as panicked as I was.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I’m thinking of skinning off your composure and wearing it as a coat,” I responded honestly. A month worth of living with him had me speaking as honestly as I could. Inside the apartment, I was free to say whatever I wanted. Achilles never complained, maybe even added his own commentary.

He laughed, not his fake laugh, a genuine breathy laugh. Truly Achilles, I called that one. “That’s one hell of an image right there. And why, pray tell, must one like you need a coat of composure?”

Melodrama, Achilles’ past time. I thought maybe he should have chosen an acting course but then I decided against telling him this. He was fake enough as it is.

“Because I’m falling apart, can’t you see me? Look at my bed! Look at _me!_ ” I shouted, sliding down to the floor. It was cold there. I wanted to stay there for five hours.

My bed was a mess, my hair was a mess. Hell, my face is _always_ a mess.

Achilles sucked at his teeth, the sound echoing in the room. He set his guitar down on his bed, helping me up from the floor. He had always easily carried my lanky form like it was nothing. It was a wonder, since I was taller than him.

Was I light or was he just stronger than he looked?

“There there, Pat,” He cooed as he laid me down on his bed as he did with his guitar. “Now, I’m gonna clean up your bed and we’re gonna take a break and eat dinner outside, my treat.”

“Bu—”

He shoved a finger to my lips, “Shush, no buts.”

I watched as he cleaned up my mess, hand rising to absently strum at his guitar. “How did I ever survive without your mercy, Your Royal Ass?” I muttered sarcastically.

He laughed, walking into the kitchen to throw away all the wrappers and cans from my bed. “Such is the mystery, my dear companion,” his voice shouted from the kitchen.

I sat up to get some proper pants. He was gonna pay for dinner, least I could do was get clothed.

I stepped out of my crappy old jogging pants, leaning down to grab at a pair of jeans from inside my bedside drawer.

I straightened up, shoving my hands through the pant legs. I shivered, feeling a cold draft from behind, the cold making the hair on my bare legs stand. Yep, needed to wear pants, pronto.

I shoved in one foot, then the other, pulling the jeans up with that silly little jig that I did.

Why Chiron gave me skinny jeans was beyond me. At least they still fit me. I zipped up and turned to grab at my discarded jogging pants.

Achilles stood by the doorway, head down and looking away. Under the yellow lighting from the hall, I could have sworn that there was a rosy tint to his tan cheeks.

The thought disappeared as he looked at me and grinned, “Ready?”

I sighed, pulling at the strings of my hoodie. “As I’ll ever be.”

* * *

 

“You know perfectly well why I’ve called you here, Patroclus.”

And I did.

Phoinix had pulled me aside for practice today. I wasn’t one to miss the look at Achilles gave me as I skated off-rink. Today was the day that I’ll be given the check talk.

“I do, sir,” I started. “But it’s a very difficult subject to breach.”

Phoinix sighed, muttering something under his breath about why one of the other coaches had left him to this talk. I kept my mouth shut. I had said what I wanted to.

“Look, Pat,” he began. “Ajax can’t always be there for the save, as much as we’d want him to. We don’t have anyone else to commandeer on the offense side and you know how Achilles gets when someone steals the puck from him.”

I did know. Achilles wasn’t one to check often, but when he did, it was extremely brutal. Usually he went for a hip check. Once or twice, an opponent player had to be exchanged out for a sub when that happened.

“There _will_ come a day when he won’t be able to do that anymore, he’ll get a penalty and we’ll have to scrape by what we can,” Phoinix continued, fingers tapping on the table.

I nodded grimly, not knowing how the team will get by without our ace. “I’ll keep it in mind, coach,” I croaked.

Phoinix nodded, dismissing me.

* * *

 

**Achilles**

what did u and coach talk about??

_it’s complicated_  
_i’ll tell you when we get lunch_

* * *

 

I told him all about it. My fear of checking, my life before Chiron, and of the kid that I’d sent to the hospital during no-check high school hockey. And he’d listened, given me all of his attention as he usually did when I talked to him. I tried to keep the nervous tone out of my voice.

I hadn’t even touched my food yet.

Silence came after it, churning something deep in my stomach. I wondered if it was hunger though I knew it was anxiety.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. The check, I mean,” Achilles spoke up. I looked up from my food, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. There was no wariness or caution. My stomach clenched once more.

I said nothing to this, letting him continue. I had nothing to say, I had already known that it was all in my head. But that didn’t mean that it would stop now that I’ve acknowledged it.

“The team wouldn’t think anything of it,” he said like it was a fact. He didn’t know for sure, I thought to myself. He couldn’t have known for sure.

“You don’t know that for sure,” I voiced out. His lip curled up to one side.

“I don’t. But do _you_ think they’ll think of it?”

I didn’t. Odysseus would act noble and thank me for telling him. Agamemnon cared little about anything other than himself. Menelaus, I wasn’t sure. We barely spoke. Automedon has been accepting thus far, has been the friendliest person I knew in the team.

“I don’t,” I said finally, knowing that he’ll want to hear my thoughts. He smiled at this.

“If they react otherwise, they’ll get what’s coming for them,” he reassured, though it did the opposite. I shook my head, knowing that his threats didn’t come up empty.

“Don’t pull fights because of me, you idiot,” I reprimanded. “Not over something so little.”

He frowned, “This isn’t something little, Pat.”

I knew.

* * *

 

“Pat, _Patroclus_ ,” Achilles slurred, giggling a little. How the fuck was he _this_ giggly already?

Today was one of the post-game celebrations, held by Agamemnon and Menelaus. I forgot the scores, the alcohol washing it away. I wasn’t as drunk as Achilles was but I was as out of it as anyone who’s had to do a keg-stand.

I counted my little victories. At least I could hold my alcohol better than Achilles.

“What is it this time?” I asked, leaning back on the couch. He moved closer, leaning down to lie sideways, head on my lap.

“Do you ever think of the future?” came one of his weird questions.

“All the fucking time,” I answered honestly.

He hummed, the sound vibrating on my thigh, the only indication I had that he actually made a sound. Someone was ruining the Atreus boys’ stereo at the moment, the sound of the bass booming through the rooms.

“Hey Pat?”

“Yeah, Achillles?”

I watched, amused as he sat up and swayed instantly. He leaned on my arm, filling my view with his golden curls.

“Let’s play twenty questions. If you lie, you lose.”

I hummed, “How would you know if I’m lying or not?”

“I’ll know.”

I believed him. “You go first then,” I said.

Achilles leaned back on the couch, propping his feet up on the table. He smiled softly. “Alright, what’s your favorite color?”

I grabbed at his solo cup, which was about to fall on my lap. I set it on the table, far from his feet, and mirrored his pose.

“Green. You?”

He hummed, in thought. For extra drama, he put his finger on his chin and pouted. I laughed.

“You can’t say rainbow,” I added quickly.

“Well, how am I gonna pick now?” Achilles huffed, pushing me by the shoulder.

“Easy, just say a color.”

“A color.”

It was my turn to huff and push him by the shoulder. “C’mon, if you don’t answer, I’m gonna count that as a lie.”

He continued thinking. His finger left his chin, and then took hold of my wrist. I was used to his touch by now. He was a touchy person to begin with. One too many hard pats on my ass after an assist were how I could tell. I speak from experience.

“This,” he said. I turned to regard his expression. Thoughtful, like he really did expect this game to be completely honest. He tapped at my wrist again, finger over my pulse.

“This is my favorite color.”

I could feel myself flush, a voice in the back of my head saying that maybe he was just joking. Maybe he had taken a bite out of one of those weed brownies that Odysseus was baking. Maybe he didn’t really mean anything behind it.

He stared at me, rosy cheeks and gold on green. I almost stopped breathing. “Your turn,” he mumbled, voice too close to my ear. I resisted the shudder that almost came through me.

Alright, if honesty was his game, I was gonna take advantage of it.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” I asked, voice low in the constant buzz around us. No one would hear us over the music but still, I was cautious. The room was half-empty, everyone was behind us.

Achilles’ hold on my wrist tightened, not painfully but almost nervously. There was none of the tension on his shoulders like I’d expected, like he was pouring it out into my pulse. His lips parted for a moment, and then closed again.

I waited. I didn’t know how much time passed as he continued to stare at me. I didn’t look away either.

“Because you’re beautiful, Pat,” he finally answered. I blinked, not sure if I was shocked because I wasn’t expecting it or because it came from his mouth.

I didn’t know what to say, but apparently what I said was, “Um, thanks,” because he smiled at me. A goofy laugh escaped his lips and I could feel myself smiling too.

“And why do _you_ stare at me?” asked Achilles. My smile never left, and neither did his. It was like there was no one else in the room but us. Arms and thighs touching, feet on the table, relaxed.

I looked into the unlit hearth in front of us, in thought. Why _did_ I stare at Achilles? I often stared at his prowess on the rink, at his pattern while studying, at his smiles around others. I was always observing, but why? Surely it wasn’t because of his fame.

I felt his fingers, still wrapped around my wrist, squeezing. Either it meant reassurance, encouragement, or impatience. I found that it was possibly all three.

“I don’t really know,” I finally answer. I twisted my head to the side to look at him. He was looking at me already, and there was still that almost nervous look on his face. “I just always find myself looking at you, Achilles.”

There came the rosy tint on his cheeks again, and I knew I wasn’t imagining it anymore. I shook off his grip on my wrist and put a hand on his cheek, pulling him closer ‘til our noses touched.

He still stared, didn’t move to pull away. I felt vulnerable but safe, my hand warm on his cheek, our breaths intermingling. I didn’t mind the smell of beer and apparently, neither did he.

“Can I—?” I asked, cutting off to glance at his lips. He unconsciously (or consciously, I didn’t really know) licked at them.

He nodded.

(To remind all of you, I kissed first. _I_ kissed the Achilles, son of Peleus, hockey prodigy. Not the other way around.)

There was a moment when he didn’t return it. As I pulled away, he surged forward, sighing as his lips slid over mine, turning his head to fit better, to get closer.

I don’t know how to describe a kiss from Achilles. It was everything I ever thought of and nothing like what I’d expected. I felt all the emotion in one touch, one sigh; yet there was none of the aggression I’d expected coming from him, the demon on the rink. It was soft and sweet, and simple. And most importantly, genuine.

Like he normally behaved around me. Only me.

I smiled into the kiss, and he did too. We broke apart, foreheads touching, eyes meeting. I wasn’t afraid that it was just him drunk. I’ve known him for a long time now. He was an honest drunk.

“Pinch me,” he mumbled, lips bumping onto mine as he spoke. With a chuckle, I pulled at his cheek, pulling away as he yelped.

Then he laughed, a genuine smile on his face. Endearing, I named it. Endearing and fond. I smiled back.

“So it _wasn’t_ a dream then,” he muttered, mostly to himself. I nodded at this. It wasn’t.


End file.
